The march home began in silence.
Not the silence of defeat, but the silence of men and women carrying the weight of triumph upon their shoulders.
Blood still clung to their weapons, soot still blackened their armor, and the smoke of the fallen capital still lingered in their lungs. Yet their steps struck the earth with the rhythm of destiny—slow, deliberate, undeniable.
Lan walked at the front.
His body no longer bore wounds, but his spirit dragged heavy chains. The air was cold, the kind of cold that sharpened every breath and burned the lungs, yet to him it was clearer, cleaner than any he had felt in years.
Behind him stretched the host: his sworn men, deserters who had bent the knee, and the surrendered Solaris soldiers who had now accepted the banner of the Northern Sect.
A kingdom was dead. Another had risen in its place.
The road north was long, winding through valleys blackened by war and villages abandoned to ruin.
Every few leagues, Lan looked back.
